


Filled

by cuntoid



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Alien Cock, Breeding, Breeding Kink, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fearplay, Shapeshifting, clown fuck, coulrophilia, drool, dubcon, feeling watched, huge cock, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 15:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13707303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuntoid/pseuds/cuntoid
Summary: A creepy exchange with a stranger leads to an unexpectedly rough night.





	Filled

**Author's Note:**

> Always grateful for commissions that bring me joy to write ("""joy""", lol). Feel free to DM me for commission requests and prices!

Your first thought upon entering the bookstore is that all you need to do is browse a little – kill some time, check the comic books, maybe dabble in horror. No spending, no fucking around; just a quick detour between errands, a breather in your busy day. It should be your day off. You should be lying in a heap in front of your laptop with a blanket, with food that comes in takeout bags or needs to be put in the microwave. 

An overpriced coffee and a couple books tucked under your arm for impromptu purchase later, you find yourself guiltily stroking the spines of a few more titles after looping back around to the horror fiction. Dripping red lettering stares at you from several choices, whispering, beckoning you into dark rooms in haunted houses, streets at night where killers await you, supernatural shenanigans abound. 

“See anything you like?” 

The voice startles you, coffee in danger of flying out of your hand as you recoil from it and whirl to face its owner. It’s just a man, towering above you with a hint of amusement curving his lips and a title opened up in his hands. He waits for you to gather your wits with that smile, with bright eyes that seem to miss nothing as he gives you a cursory once-over. Dark circles gather beneath them like a fog, the contrast between them and his brilliant eyes something to behold. They’re blue, a pure blue like the hearts of glaciers, like chips of precious stone, the intensity of his gaze further sharpened by them. He’s striking. The edges of his cheekbones curve inward and shape the angles of his jaw, pleasantly gaunt as they frame his full lips. 

“Well, not really, not enough to buy. I mean… I shouldn’t be buying _anything_. You know how it is,” you laugh. “Sorry for jumping, you scared me.” 

“Tightly wound,” he ventures, smile slanting into a smirk. Sharp teeth peek through his shapely, soft lips, only for a moment, enough to trip an alarm in your mind. “Maybe these aren’t for you, fearful little thing.” 

His voice is flavored by some accent you can’t place, the cadence and roughness of it coming off… _wrong_. Exactly why it’s wrong eludes you – something about the accent you can’t place, the venom hiding below his pleasant tone, a current hiding inside of him like the call of the void. You eye the book he’s holding, desperate for a distraction from this strange train of thought, and tap the dustjacket. 

“I like this one. I like his work, even though, yeah… kinda spooky. _Everything_ scares me, though. I just can’t help myself.” 

“I’ve read a little,” he murmurs, regarding the book’s cover before sliding it back into its place on the shelf. “He got some things wrong. The Sai took his liberties.” 

The entire bookstore seems to shift, time slowing to a crawl as you listen to him. A shudder crawls up your spine to shake goosebumps over your flesh, and there’s a long moment in which you’re staring into his eyes and navigating those glacial ridges and slits, the yawning doorway of his pupils expanding inexplicably to pull you inside. In the illuminated wasteland beyond his eyes, something is wrong. It rings true in every cell of your body, nagging at you, adrenaline surging through your blood in an innate urge to escape. 

Before you can so much as gather your thoughts, he takes a step closer and reaches out to brush long, moon-pale fingers over yours as he tilts the volume to read the title. He hums noncommittally and those eyes return to you. The dustjacket boasts a sewer grate with scaly, reptilian claws snaking through for a paper boat. 

“My favorite of his. Are you familiar?” 

Finally, your voice croaks up from the depths of your diaphragm, weak with misplaced fear. “Yeah, it’s a classic.” 

He grins then, and for a sliver of a moment there are sharkteeth glinting behind his lips. A closer look reveals perfectly human teeth filling his mouth as they should, just a normal man and a normal smile. He laughs a little and grazes his thumb over your knuckle as he pulls back. 

“Your favorite, as well – I can tell. You _like_ to be afraid. What scares a thing like you, hm? Scared of the dark?” 

_You. You scare me, Mister._

“Oh, uh… Not really. My fears are kind of… more grounded in real life, like having children, missing my bills, shit like that. Nothing interesting, here,” you laugh, switching your coffee from one hand to another in a vain attempt to drain some of your nervous energy. This man is interesting, and handsome, and absolutely unsettling. A voice reserved for prey in danger, for lonely girls in public places, speaks up from the hidden place in your chest, a place so ingrained in creatures of flesh and sentience that it’s almost an ancient truth. It screams into your limbs and breathes fresh life into your fear-heightened senses – _do not stay with this man. Leave. Leave without paying. Just. Leave._

A thin string of drool races over his chin, followed by another as he licks his lips. He shakes his head a little and swallows, audibly, like he’s trying to reign himself in. “Afraid of breeding,” he rasps. “On the contrary, I find that _very_ interesting.” 

No longer do you feel the magnetic pull keeping you in this conversation, close enough to this stranger that you could rock forward on your heels and rest your cheek against his suit jacket. Your ears ring faintly in a surprise bout of vertigo and you back away as if stepping through mud, like the floor is sucking at your boots to keep you trapped with him. 

“Okay, well, I gotta go, so… nice meeting you,” you stammer. The moment your back is turned, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and you shove your selections back on a random shelf, barely registering a pang of guilt in your race to leave the store. There isn’t a moment of relief until you’re sitting in the driver’s seat listening to the automatic locks pop, peering out from every window to see if he’s left the store to follow you. One minute passes, and then five, your hands shaking uselessly in your lap as you wait to see him exit. 

A round of deep breaths later, you turn the radio on and drive off, eyes in a constant dance between the road ahead and your rear-view mirror. Nothing chases you but your own thoughts, chomping at the bit to race over each other and fill your mind with half-comprehensible panic, fissures cracking in the veneer of your self control and following you through the rest of your errands like prying eyes. 

By the time you reach home, all thoughts regarding the stranger are neatly compartmentalized and tucked away, barely a tug at your subconscious. All that’s on your mind is unloading the groceries so you can open too many boxes, sampling things here and there as if you don’t buy them regularly. It’s pleasantly mind-numbing, going through the motions of arranging and putting away the groceries, peeling your clothes off bit by bit in preparation to shower and pull on something much cozier. 

In the hot spray of the shower, the man from earlier makes an unwelcome cameo in your thoughts, wheedling his way to the forefront, magnetic, impossible to escape even in the relative safety of your bathroom. The more his haunted gaze floats on the screen in your brain, the handsomely gaunt lines of his jaw, his cheekbones, the more you feel the urge to snatch the shower curtain back and check. Check for what? You turn to face the spray so that it beats down over your face, molten pressure dazzling your eyelids with bursts of color instead of the man. The peek of sharp teeth that weren’t sharp. 

_Were they?_

You pull back the curtain in one clean, impulsive swipe. Somewhere in the metallic slink of the rings across the curtain rod, you swear there’s a laugh. The tiniest snatch of a snicker. Just enough to take your breath away and paralyze you with fear. 

Nothing but mist clinging near the ceiling. Just you and the water, the dull hum of the fan and the ugly cast of yellow 

( _orange_ ) 

light from the cobwebbed fixture. Grasping at reason and better judgment is futile, slipping through your proverbial fingers like sand. Anxiety fills you, cottony and veiling your eyes, stuffed into your throat up to the back of your dry tongue. It takes a long moment of darting around each corner of the room with your eyes, wide open in spite of the shampoo running down your forehead and stinging the corners. You have to know. You have to be sure. 

Satisfied enough to quiet the worst of your paranoia, you go through the motions of finishing your shower and meander into your room. You know you need to dry off and make some food, wind down with a show or some mindless scrolling through social media. Anything to erase the dread seeping through your pores and polluting the air around you, every single nerve attuned to a presence that you’re creating in your own head. There seem to be eyes in every shadow. 

And then, there _are_ eyes. 

You flick off the light switch to your room to exit and turn back to grab your cell phone, and there they are. Twin spots of fire glowing high up in the shadows, reflecting a kaleidoscope of weird lights like a cat’s. Your heart stops, muscles achingly stiff with alarm. There is no will to move. All you can do is stare helplessly at the eyes and try to discern a shape – it shouldn’t be so impossible, the room isn’t that large. Your body thinks for you and you watch your own hand fly up to reverse the switch, light flooding the small room and showing you nothing. Nothing in the corner, no eyes, no lights, no hints of hulking figures in the dark. Nothing waiting for you. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” you breathe. If your heart hammers any harder, you fear it might burst from your body and splatter against the sterile, white paint of the walls. “Holy fuck! Oh my God, I need to chill. I need to… fucking… _calm down_.” 

Hands shaking, you grab your phone and slam the door behind you after turning the light off. The adrenaline is maddening, every inch of your skin crawling as if desperate to shear itself cleanly from the muscle, bone and gristle and leave you a shrieking ghoul. The mental image does nothing to soothe you and you focus instead on each staggered step toward the living room, one hand trailing the wall to steady yourself. You’re just going to watch something funny, turn the volume up loud and drown out your skittishness with corny jokes and shitty television. 

There’s a sense of safety on your couch, bundled up in a blanket while you give your focus up to the glowing screen and turn off for a while. There’s nothing to pay attention to but fictional drama and whether you need something to snack on. 

But in the very back of your mind, you keep replaying parts of your day. The stranger makes an appearance every few seconds; how his gaze left you feeling stripped to the bone, the way his sharp teeth glinted at you before disappearing. A trick of the eye. A deeply buried mechanism, probably, some mental process designed to help signal danger and the need to escape, same as the tingling on the back of your neck as you think of it now. It’s almost like you’re being stroked feather-light, a cold finger up your spine. 

The sensation spreads to several different points of contact, sliding coolly over your shoulders and grasping until the unmistakable feeling of fingertips tapping on your collarbone makes you scream. There’s a swirl of laughter, more felt than heard as it filters through your hair and fills the room, a cacophonous roar by the time the hands squeeze into your flesh and sharp nails make tiny, stinging punctures like decorations under that delicate line of bone. 

“ _Not afraid of the dark._ The tiny thing lies.” The presumed owner of the voice giggles, its breath tickling past the the shell of your ear and filling your nose with the scent of autumn leaves and damp, rotting earth. It makes your stomach lurch, throat filling with bile as that spiced scent fills your lungs. It changes. The strong, green earth smell gives way to sugar, the heavy fried scent of carnivals and fairs, dripping with sweetness, and there’s a wet slurp as a tongue swipes behind the corner of your jaw. “You _taste_ afraid.” 

“Please,” you whisper, and one plea turns into two, into three, devolving into a desperate mantra to be released from whatever this is. The mechanics of how this is happening is utterly lost on you – there’s no room for logic. “Please, please, _please_ …” 

It cackles with pleasure, humming into the curve of your throat. Something sharp drags there, and you gag when you realize it’s a mouthful of sharp teeth, nipping and scratching as if it can barely hold itself back. In a moment of mercy, its hands release and you tumble to the floor in your hurry to escape it, shuffling back on your clumsy feet and shaky hands. 

_It’s a clown_. It’s the biggest fucking clown you’ve ever seen. 

From striped boots to the unruly curl of orange hair, he must be seven or eight feet tall. Brighter than his hair are his eyes, burning exactly like those lights in your bedroom, and you know then that it was him. Trying to wrap your mind around how he fit his massive body in the weak shadows of your room floods your limbs with the kind of debilitating panic that borders on insanity. The clown grins and it only confirms what your body already knows, that he’s outfitted with teeth that could rip your throat out in a blink. There is no doubt in your mind that he could bite your hand clean off without strain – hell, he could likely rip a whole arm off. 

Tiny bells chime as he sweeps into a bow and winks at you. Drool comes in thin rivulets, shining as it soaks his chin and drips down into your carpet, and there’s something very disquieting about the fact that physical proof of his existence is now embedded into the floor of your home. He’ll remain here even if you don’t. 

“ _Please, please!_ ” His voice draws high into a mockery of your voice, shrill and haunting as whistling through a cemetery. He stoops lower, lower still, folding in half as his elegant fingers stroke the carpet and he flattens his palms down. His feet lift in slow motion and rise up behind him, walking backwards and up through the air like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He starts walking on his hands as his spidery legs hang comically overhead, smirking and baring those teeth. You’re glued to the spot. There’s weight in your body that simply can’t be moved, and it’s like the gravity he just defied before your eyes was transferred to you, sealing your fate as this thing comes close enough to touch you. The way his eyes crawl up and down your body forces a fresh wave of terror to dot your flesh with goosebumps in its wake. He appraises you like – 

_Like a cut of meat._

“I came to play with you. I could tell, _I could!_ Could smell that you needed to be _filled_.” His eyes roll back and he growls, vibrating across the minimal space between you so that you can feel it in your own chest and in the basin of your hips. Sparks of heat like fireflies zip around your belly and glow like embers between your thighs. The clown shudders, scenting the air with the sharpened focus of a true predator. His feet come down and the floor shakes with the force of it. He grabs your thighs, yanking them hard enough to send you sprawling on your back, and as you lift on your elbows, he lowers his face and buries his painted nose against the flimsy crotch of your pajamas. 

Profanities stream from your mouth in broken sobs, chest hitching as you reach down to push against his head. He’s immovable; he barely acknowledges your attempts to shove him back and squirm away, each strike against him like butterfly wings to a boulder. His hair is disconcertingly soft, silken as you wrap it around your fingers and try to hurt him, try yanking it out of his scalp in ragged clumps, but nothing stops him from nuzzling against your cunt with that dangerous mouth and spilling his hot breath across your parted flesh. The slightest buck against him in response sends him through another manic fit of laughter, and finally he pulls away. 

“What’s wrong, precious thing? Don’t you remember me?” 

His makeup isn’t smearing when you slap him – where the impulse comes from is a mystery, as it’s the last thing you actually want to do in your delicate situation. He grabs your hands midair and stares coyly at you, runners of saliva dripping down over your naked thighs. He waits a beat to ensure he has your attention, and… _he changes._

His skin twists and the stark white expanse of his face, the dusky red lining his lips and cheeks and eyes, all of it drains away, cheeks slimming to hard chips of bone in a handsome and very familiar face. The man from the library. He laughs in a poor rendition of a human’s and furrows his brow, full lip pouting out. 

“You said you weren’t afraid of the dark. _Lie_. Slippery little liar, lying to Daddy like that.” 

His falsely human face drags you into a twisted sense of relief and you stare at his lips, his tongue behind sharpened teeth as they form around the word Daddy. Color bleeds back into his face in angry red, splitting his cheekbones down the middle and filling his lips. The sickening crunch of his skull changing shape makes you dry heave to the side, guts jerking up as you struggle for breath. 

“ _Mmm,_ you know what? You also said you were afraid of bearing offspring. Lied right through your teeth,” he purrs. The musical quality of his voice is warped into something akin to a broken jack-in-the-box, an old record player that skips and pops. Each consonant cuts through his strange lilt like glass. Precise. Intentional. “All I smell here is your _heat_. Why would such a nice little girl lie to me? Pennywise can help.” 

_Pennywise?_ “You… aren’t real, you’re a fucking story. You’re just a story,” you babble. 

The clown swipes a long, wormlike tongue across the points of his teeth, black as the vacant voids of his pupils. Rolling akimbo in his skull, he struggles to focus his gaze in his enthusiasm, tearing your clothes off while you thrash beneath him. He has no problem keeping his eyes trained on your pussy as the layers are torn away, and there’s still a shred of hope hidden under several layers of denial; hope that he’ll fail to notice your body’s natural reaction to his roughness, the way he talks about you like you’re his personal breeding stock. That horrifying mouth twitches up into a smirk again and you know all hope is lost. You’re fucked. 

“I’m real enough to give you what you _need_ … and what do we have _here?_ So wet,” he teases, trailing a single gloved finger along the plump of one lip. “You’re scared – this much is true. But it smells sweetened, spiked. What kind of treat do you have for me to claim, sweetling? _Let’s have a taste!_ ” 

“ _Please don’t_ – ” 

That tongue, long and thick and dripping black, unfurls from the cavern of razored teeth to swipe from tight, aching hole to swollen clit, and you squeeze your eyes shut in the wake of the pleasure twisting through you. It’s searing and urgent, having been pushed to the recesses of your mind where it couldn’t taunt you. Pennywise drags it kicking and screaming to the surface, all too happy to show you what you’ve been avoiding. 

His tongue doesn’t feel like a tongue; it feels too slick and supple, snakelike, wriggling against your clit and drawing pleasure from you as if from a well. He hums and it rattles through him like a purr, vibrating against your core to speed along your imminent undoing against his evil mouth. The tongue alone fills you like a cock might, stretching you open and brushing each neglected nerve ending until your resolve starts crumbling and you squeeze against him, milking it for the sweet build of pressure in your belly. Nothing gets by him – he licks, thrusts and hums with gusto, the edge of his ragged breaths lit with amusement and hunger. 

His tongue is replaced swiftly with two long, thick fingers and he looms over you with your own cum on his lips. “ _You like this_. You want to be good for me, you want to give in. Give in to Pennywise, little girl. _Give. In_. Must relax your tight muscles, ease my passage.” 

“ _Wh_ – ease your _p-pass_ – ?” 

The world condenses into pure sensation when he starts lapping at your clit. Everything in your mind rebels against the situation, against the possibility of any of this being real, but your body goes taut all the same. You still whine between your sobs and melt against the rough carpet. It takes mere minutes before you can feel that final, aching pulse around his tireless fingers and you cum hard, harder than you have in a long time. The air is filled with sounds, in your ears and bouncing off the walls in your home, and it’s _you_ – your wailing and the clown’s fevered mumbling, his giggling. 

In the midst of all that delicious pressure, he curves his fingers just so and your release starts all over again, brought back to the knife’s edge for him to eviscerate you of as much as he can. Your eyes roll back and all you can do is writhe and let it take you, an undercurrent you can’t fight. You let it draw you out into its depths with tears on your face, which the clown laps up like some kind of offering. 

“Good girl,” Pennywise breathes. Every nerve in your body is painfully alive and electric, and it horrifies you to realize that you’re whining for him, scooting down to seek more contact when he finally ends his assault. “So _desperate_. Cumming so hard for Daddy, so _tight_ and _tasty_. You’re ready, aren’t you, _yes_ – ready to take my seed deep into that little cunt, take it until your belly is full with my brood.” 

“Your brood?” It’s a stupid question, one you hadn’t planned on croaking out like you are now; you know exactly what he means and what he’s going to do. His eyes are windows to hell, fire snapping inside of them red as blood, deep orange like nightmares, and they’re trained on your slick, parted cunt. 

His uniform bulges obscenely below his belly, straining against the fabric until the seams split and a rip frees his cock, tattered cloth framing his nightmarish genitalia. It’s monstrous like the rest of him, long and impossibly thick. There are sinewy lines running up from underneath, like tendons, paths that lead you to your ruin. Ichor drips freely from the entire length, with no discernable slit or pore to speak of. Ridges and bumps decorate him like art, like some ancient pattern, one that can only spell danger, death, disease. How many other humans have seen this? How many survived? 

“My pet,” he croons, teasing your clit with one gentle fingertip. “Filled with my pups. You want this. You want me inside of you, _aaalll the way inside_ , where I’ll grow. Fill you like a bitch in heat. _Little pup with little pups!_ ” 

“It won’t fit.” Formulating words is tiresome, your voice threadbare and shaky. You have no idea who you’re trying to convince anymore. “I _can’t._ ” 

“ _I will make it fit_.” 

The first nudge of his cock is apprehensive; delicate, even as it squirms between your slicked, swollen cunt lips and ignites a new line of fire. Inch by aching inch, his rippled flesh parts you open and he purrs, leaning forward to drag his tongue along your neck, the line of your upturned jaw. The moment you picture his teeth puncturing your throat, there they are, teasing the wet trail left behind by his toxic drool with warning nips. 

In a fit of indecision, Pennywise grabs you at the waist and flips you to your belly, taking no consideration for how it might feel to have his mean hands digging into your ribs and the way he slams you down, cheek burning against the carpet fibers when he yanks your hips back. His strange, squirming cock is still exploring just inside your cunt and the change of angle forces new pleasure to blossom under the discomfort, the embarrassment of being utterly spread open and vulnerable to him with your ass in the air. 

“Are you ready, sweetling? Ready to take every last drop?” He bucks forward with every word, dipping millimeters further each time to sweeten the pain of the stretch. The tip rubs against your g-spot and there are stars bursting behind your eyelids, sweet explosions of sensation racing down your trembling thighs to your toes. He pauses and it takes every single bit of energy you have left to stop yourself from arching back for more. “ _Can’t get enough!_ Beg for it, little pup, beg for Daddy to fill you up!” 

Your silence only earns you more of the same shallow thrusting, Pennywise sinking his claws into the flesh of your hips and hovering over your spine to watch you like a cruel and unusual god, baptizing you in sweat and drool and cum. Lips quivering, you take as deep a breath as your lungs allow and exhale mumbled pleas, groveling, closing your eyes against the humiliation of it all. His cock expands, still only a fraction of the way inside of you. 

“More. _Louder._ Do it, little girl, my little sugar-candy girl, come to bear my offspring. _Come-commala_ , I can smell your heat. I’ll stuff your pretty cunt and watch your belly grow. _Beg me._ ” 

The words pour from you as if from a font, spilling over your lips and into the atmosphere to encourage Pennywise to jerk his hips back and bring them forward in a mean, deep thrust, and the pain doesn’t hit you at first. It’s the pressure of stars, collapsing and imploding into bottomless pits so overfilled with desire that nothing escapes. Pennywise sinks into you until your body screams, until you’re positive you’ll rip in two and he’ll mate your gored remains. 

His laughter devolves into a strange, clicking growl, rattling up through him like the delicate pops of a spine as his wriggling length forces itself to the hilt. The sensation of his pelvis rocking impatiently forward sends forth hot jabs of pain laced with pleasure. There’s no hope for you once he rolls his hips back and thrusts home again, testing the achingly snug fit of your pussy wrapped around him, squeezing, milking him before he’s even begun. He’s ruthless as he snaps his hips without any regard to your comfort or safety, threading his spidery fingers into your hair and using it as leverage to shove your face down against the carpet. 

“ _I can’t!_ ” You whimper. There’s barely enough energy left in you to move, to raise your voice to more than a pathetic soprano, high and sharp as mosquito wings. “ _I can’t, I can’t_ …” 

“You _can._ ” 

Pennywise’s voice is even less recognizable, a stolen glance revealing his mouth agape and filled with more teeth than you can readily comprehend, dripping and chittering and guarding what looks like something lit up in his throat – stars of his very own, winking back there with a glow that seems to throb and pulse and pull, things that _float_ – 

He speaks words that drip from his mouth like all that spit, staining the ruffles of his costume pink with what you know deep down to be blood. His cock ripples inside of you, throbs in time to your frantic heartbeat high up against the tender curve of your cervix. The way your cunt tightens impossibly around him is breathtaking, leaving you all too happy to look away from those strange lights and surrender to the ones behind your eyelids, lips parting for him when he slides his palm across your cheek and his fingers demand entry. His glove doesn’t feel like a glove whatsoever, resembling flesh in a way that constricts your poor stomach. It’s wrong. His fingers taste like sugar and you lick and suck and moan against them, half-expecting the alien material to melt away like candy floss from a carnival. 

“ _You belong to me_ ,” he roars. His voice takes on a tonal quality that raises each and every hair on your body, up through the sheen of sweat and spit and blood, and realize that you can’t hear him so much as you can feel him, his voice snaking through your veins and whispering between the slats on your ribs, up into your overfilled cunt and beyond to your womb. It vibrates everywhere, spreading like a disease, filling you in every sense of the word. “ _Mine_. My soft, good girl, hungry little bitch, so _eager_ for Daddy. Can feel you desperate to cum, _yes, I can_. Delicious girl.” 

He tilts his hips and it spells the end for you for a second time, or perhaps a third or fourth; it’s impossible to know for sure. Every muscle tenses up until even the abomination panting above you lets out a strangled sound of pleasure, driving faster and harder into you as you succumb to the first warning spasms of climax. It hits you like a slow, torturous wave, wiping you clean of thought and movement, Pennywise twisting his fingernails into your flesh hard enough to draw blood as he pounds into you. Everything he does feels good in the gauzy haze of orgasm and you bite down on his fingers. You bite hard enough to cause damage to a normal person – but Pennywise _isn’t_ a person, that much is clear. He uses your body like his own personal fucktoy and you manage to draw blood, retracting your bite to lick it from his non-flesh, and not once do you wonder _why._ Why his thick, dark blood tastes sweet and ancient, why it tingles on your lips and tongue and races like fire down into your belly. It feels like light, like fire, like those stars in the back of his throat. 

“ _Mine, mine, mine_. Take my cum, take all of it! Good girl, yes, _yes_ – ” 

His cock expands. Amorphous as it is, the shape and length have been shifting inside of your body with his rutting, changing shape to manipulate pleasure from you as though he’s playing an instrument. But this is something else, the way he seems to grow, to inflate, and your first true coherent thought coming back down to earth is the fear that he may be about to split you in half. 

Pushed alarmingly past your limit, a tight, burning ring of pressure and pain where he holds you flush against the base of his cock, you moan when the first jet of his cum spurts into your body. He’s not going to tear you apart; he’s making good on his word. He’s actually breeding you, knotting to stay stuffed in your pussy long enough to empty his balls inside of you in searing ropes. Never before have you felt such a powerful sensation as Pennywise filling you with his seed. You reach a brief, explosive climax once more before he’s through just from the sensation of it coating the bruised swelling of your cervix. 

Fingers long removed from your mouth, he strokes your hair as you both come down. It takes him a while before his cock isn’t so utterly trapped in the soft prison of your body, finding amusement in wiggling and twitching to hear the sounds you make. Once free, he slides out to watch the combined fluids drip down your thighs. There’s a pool of it, black and thick and sticky around your bent knees and blooming toward your feet. 

Pennywise leans forward once more over your body and nuzzles into your shoulder, at the curve of your throat, scraping his teeth affectionately over your skin before soothing it with his tongue. He laps at your fevered skin and damp hairline and reaches below to press a massive hand against your belly, pressing lightly into it. 

“ _Mine_ ,” he repeats. “I’ll be back for you. I’ll keep _coming_ ‘til it _takes._ ” 

The double-entendre isn’t lost on you, but as he cackles with pleasure at his own joke, you shudder. There are still pops and fizzles of aftershocks making your body twitch. All you can think of is going to bed to sleep this off, still not entirely convinced it’s not a nightmare ( _or a wet dream_ ). Vision bleary with exhaustion and tears, you allow Pennywise to heft you up into the cradle of his arms, unable to do much to stop him even if you had the energy. He deposits you clumsily to your bed and leans down to eye level. He licks his lips and one long, clean, gloved finger reaches out to you – his outfit, soiled with your combined fluids only seconds before, is spotless. With his seeds sown and his promise of return heavy in the air, he taps the tip of your nose and vanishes.


End file.
